


flames and magic

by IceisAwesome



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angry Xanxus, BAMF Harry Potter, Gen, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Harry is called Hadrian, Mafia Boss Sawada Tsunayoshi, The fic where Tsuna and Xanxus adopt Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-02-08 11:31:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12863589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceisAwesome/pseuds/IceisAwesome
Summary: Tsuna finds an abused child with an abundance of sky flames. Is it any surprise that he adopts him? Hadrian di Vongola is raised by two loving fathers, surrounded by the most dangerous people in the world, and taught to kill by the best of the best. The Wizarding World won't know what hit them.





	1. Chapter 1

Tsuna still isn’t sure why he’s here on a Varia mission.

He knows why, his intuition had screamed when Squalo had handed him the paperwork, but that doesn’t explain it. That doesn’t explain why he’s standing in the driveway of a painfully ordinary house on a painfully ordinary street. 

The targets are a middle class couple with no training and no connections. Varia quality is overkill for this. They’d been hired in the first place by the man’s colleagues (something about a botched business deal? Not like it really mattered anyways.) The pair had a child but he’d had made sure the boy would end up with a relative and not in foster care.

It’s supposed to be an easy job, in and out and hopefully his intuition would stop screaming in the back of his mind.

It is an easy job at first. The woman goes down silently with one slice against her skinny neck, the man has his brain splattered against the wall courtesy of a gun fitted with a custom silencer.

Tsuna motions the trainees with him to search the house, jumping down from the second floor to see if whatever called him here is on the first.

There’s a noise-so quiet no one should hear it. But Tsuna is Varia quality and Vongola trained, he can hear what sounds suspiciously like a sob.

His intuition is screaming too, a rush of white noise urging him towards the cupboard under the stairs. He frowns as he notices the lock (what could such an ordinary couple have to hide?) before breaking it with a careful application of flames.

It’s a shame the couple are already dead, because when Tsuna sees the sight before him he wants to make them _burn._

There’s a child huddled in a corner of the cupboard, too big clothes draped on a body that’s clearly malnourished. Bright green eyes filled with terror stare up at him from underneath a mop of tangled black hair, purple bruises stand out on his pallid skin.

But what makes Tsuna pause, what makes his intuition purr, is the feel of flames. The boy is a sky and a strong one-at least as strong as Xanxus, maybe even as strong as Tsuna. Tsuna sucks in a breath at the feel of the boys flames, at the feeling of hunger, of fear, of rage.

“You killed them,” the boy finally speaks up.

“I did.”

“Are you going to kill me too?” The boy doesn’t seem afraid, just resigned, and flames burst from Tsuna’s hand at the sight. He should have made them suffer, he should have cut the husband open and made his wife watch.

“No, I’m not,” he tells the boy, careful to keep his voice gentle. Tsuna cracks a smile as the boy’s eyes go wide at the sight of flames, his smile growing wider as, just for a moment, those green eyes flash orange.

“I am Tsuna di Vongola,” he starts in a voice tinged with the promise of an oath made in flames, “and I want you to be my son.”

Tsuna holds out his hand, waiting patiently as the boy stares, before a shaking hand reaches out and grabs hold of his. Tsuna smiles as the boy gasps at the feel of an oath sworn, at the feel of flames and warmth draped around them like a cloak.

He leads the boy out, pulling him up and letting him nestle against his shoulder when the boy’s legs buckle.

“Come, bambino,” Tsuna whispers, stroking his black hair, “let’s go home.”


	2. Chapter 2

“What is  _that?”_

Tsuna, the fucking stupid, completely reckless, wonderful  _idiot_ , rolls his eyes.

“You’ve seen children before, mi amore.”

Xanxus quells the now familiar rush of warmth and panic mixed together at the endearment, focusing instead on the child in his lover’s arms.

“Answer me.”

His lover sighs before settling the kid down on the chair next to them, running a reassuring hand through his hair when the kid flinches back when he opens his eyes.

“I found him locked in a cupboard under the target’s stairs.”

He looks the brat over, sees the telltale bruises and painfully skinny body, the obvious signs the boy’s been abused.

“So put him with one of the allied families, if you want to keep an eye on him.”

“He’s a sky, Xan. He’s a sky with  _potential._  I felt his flames, he has to be four years old at most and his flames are as potent as yours.”

Tsuna doesn’t lie, not about things like this, and Xanxus looks the kid over again. Those green eyes are wide in fear, clearly not understanding the Italian they’re speaking in, but the boy doesn’t cower. The boy stays still, stays defiant, and Xanxus is certain that’s put the kid through beatings before.

“And,” Tsuna starts, looking embarrassed, and he already feels a headache coming on, “I may have sworn in flames to make him my son.”

“You did  _what.”_  He hisses in response, ignoring the pang of guilt when the kid flinches back and tries to disappear.

Tsuna gives him a reproving look at that before switching to English.

“Intuition lead me there, and intuition rejoiced when I made the contract. This boy is meant to be Vongola.”

Intuition. Of course, of course it’s the fucking Vongola intuition. Tsuna is famed for the potency of his intuition, notorious for how his own rivals Primo’s precognition. 

He’s seen enough shit to know this is a losing battle.

“What’s the brat’s name?”

“Freak,” the boy speaks up then, no longer trying to meld with couch, and that’s enough to send a spike of familiar rage through him.

“They called you freak,” Tsuna states flatly, eyes burning orange, and the boy nods meekly, curling into Tsuna’s hold.

“Tell me they died slowly,” Xanxus responds, not bothering to switch to Italian.

“Not as slow as they should’ve,” his partner responds grimly, eyes still burning orange.

Tsuna takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself, and Xanxus snickers as the brat watches in wide eyed fascination as his eyes return to their familiar brown.

“How about Hadrian?” Tsuna finally suggests, smiling at the brat.

Seems like a name for some arrogant fuck of a rich kid, but the brat looks delighted.

“Hadrian,” the brat says, tasting the word on his tongue, and Tsuna gives the kid one of his blinding smiles.

“How old are you, Hadrian?” Tsuna asks gently, still smiling at the brat, but the boy only shrugs.

“Dunno.”

“I see,” he responds, still smiling but eyes turning cold.

“Well, Hadrian, I’m Tsuna, and this grump is my partner Xanxus.”

“Are you,” the brat stops and swallows, “are you my family?”

“Your dads,” Tsuna corrects, “you have your aunts and uncles too.”

The brat looks overwhelmed, looks like he’s about to cry in sheer relief, and Xanxus moves to intercept before the crying starts.

“Let’s get the brat food  _before_  you unload everything on him.”

“Good idea,” Tsuna agrees, moving to call for a servant. “What do you like, Hadrian?”

Hadrian only shrugs when the servant arrives, clearly not comprehending, and Tsuna seems to bite back a snarl.

The maid is well trained, not even raising an eyebrow when Tsuna orders everything available from the kitchens.

“We’ll explain everything, I promise,” Tsuna tells the boy gently, smiling again when the brat nods in response.

Xanxus doesn’t know how to feel about this, has never factored becoming a father into his plans for life. But Tsuna clearly has, judging by the way he’s gazing at the kid. It’s not like either of them have decent father figures, not like either of them know what the fuck they’re doing.

But he finds himself liking the idea of a kid looking at him the way the brat looks at Tsuna, likes the idea of teaching a baby sky to be quality.

They may not be know how to be fathers, but they’ll figure it out. They always do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK MOTHERFUCKERS!

“Well,” Tsunayoshi starts and stops. “Well. This is-”

“A clusterfuck?” Reborn finishes helpfully, tapping out the cigarette on the ashtray when Tsuna glares

He’d thought his former student had run out of surprises after marrying the Varia commander, but Reborn really should’ve known better. It was yet another surprise to find they’d adopted, and even more of one to find they couldn’t track who had left the child with such appalling caregivers.

Even semi-retired as he was, it was a challenge he couldn’t resist. It took a year of fruitless searching, of bets and bribery and careful blackmail, and he still didn’t find anything until that one stroke of luck.

Harry Potter. Their new son was _Harry Potter._

So called savior of the English mages, so called hero of magical Britain-and nothing more than an abused child until Tsuna found him. 

“They’ll want him back,” Tsuna continues, a hand reaching up to scratch his neck, gaze caught on the opposite wall. Reborn follows his glance, catching at the scrawled picture of the hitman young Hadrian had nervously presented to his fathers. He still remembers Hadrian’s wide eyed wonder at seeing his artwork framed in his father’s study.

They’ll want him back, Reborn knows. Just as he knows Tsuna and Xanxus would burn the world down before allowing it.

“I think,” his former student starts, “we need to involve the Italian mages.”

* * *

Hadrian isn’t stupid. He knows the people who locked him up thought so, but father made sure he knew that they were wrong, that he wasn’t a freak, wasn’t useless, wasn’t bad.

He isn’t stupid, he knows something is wrong when uncle Reborn doesn’t stop to see him before he leaves the mansion (Reborn always visits, _always_ , even if he has lessons.)

He knows something’s wrong when he hears papa scream from their bedroom, when father opens the door to find Hadrian bleeding, nails cutting into his skin as he flinches back, determined to stop the yelling but so very afraid. Papa had apologized, had bandaged his hands and promised he wasn’t mad, but something is still  _wrong._

Something’s wrong when unfamiliar men and women drop by the villa, when Hadrian looks up to see father standing next to people in robes, face carefully blank as papa snarls at someone in the distance.

Something wrong is going on, and for the first time in a year, he’s afraid.

“Hadrian,” a voice calls then, and he turns to see uncle Mukuro standing by the door, “your father wants to see you.”

“But-”

“Your homework will still be there in an hour,” his uncle says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, fingers wrapped around the door.

Getting to his feet, Hadrian follows uncle Mukuro through the halls, eyeing the man and wondering even more. He knows the way to father’s study, he knows they let him move around the mansion as long as he occasionally flares his flames.

“What’s going on?”

Uncle Mukuro laughs at that, one of his weird laughs that mean he’s actually unhappy. “So you figured it out.”

“I’m six,” he huffs, “not _stupid_.”

“It’s a sad tale, little serpent,” his uncle says, smiling the smile that means he’s mad. “And there’s people who can tell it far better than me.”

* * *

He straightens when they reach his father’s study, careful keep his steps paced and his arms loose like uncle Colonnello had taught, when he steps through the doorway.

And he blinks, then, because there’s father and papa like expected, there’s a glass of wine dangling from papa’s hand and father is sitting at his desk. But the people in robes are there, too.

“So this is him,” a voice comes from behind the man and woman standing by the fireplace, and Hadrian tilts his head, seeking out the other voice.

“This is my _son_ ,” father insists, voice cold in a way he’s never heard.

“They mean no offense, Decimo,” the man adds hurriedly. “We just wish to confirm this is the boy.”

“Father?” He finally asks, thankful his voice only waves a little, and father smiles sadly as papa stares the new people down.

“You ought to sit down for this, bambino.”

* * *

There’s certain things you aren’t supposed to do, not when you’re dealing with enemy famiglia or encountering unknowns. 

There’s certain things that aren’t allowed, and crying is one of them.

That rule may be the only thing keeping the tears in his eyes as he resolutely stares down the mages.

“They’ll want me back, won’t they?”

“Most likely,” one of the mages says, so matter of fact papa glares.

“So,” Hadrian begins, anger rising in place of the tears, “how do we stop it?”

“You don’t want to go back?” the mage in front asks, sounding genuinely curious, and Hadrian bites back a snarl.

“They abandoned me when I wasn’t useful anymore. They can  _rot_.”

A pause, then, when the third mage speaks up. “The mages of Britain will try to use the lack of blood relation you to return. Fortunately, there is a way to prevent this. But by doing so, you forsake your right to any property, patents, or money collected under the Potter name.”

“I’m Hadrian di Vongola. I’m not Harry Potter anymore.”

Father beams in the silence that follows, a gentle smile on his face as papa nods approvingly.

“It will be painful,” the mage continues, “and the blood ritual needed is illegal in most magical territories.”

“But not Italy,” father says, voice pleased, and the man smiles back.

“Despite what some of our fellow brethren say, we believe all magic can be useful-including the so-called ‘Dark Arts’ that certain blood rituals fall under.”

* * *

“You’re sure?” Father asks again, openly worried, and Hadrian nods.

“I’m sure,” 

“But-”

“He knows the risks,” papa interrupts, a familiar scowl on his face. “Let’s just get this shit done with.”

The three of them step into the ritual chamber, Hadrian reaching up to grab hold of his father’s hand, papa’s presence a comforting weight beside him.

Stepping through, he stops suddenly, looking down at the polished black stone of the chamber, at the tapestries lining the dark walls-tapestries decorated with what looks like runes, with languages he can’t even begin to decipher.

“Are you ready, Vongola Decimo?” a voice interrupts his staring, a mage hurrying forward with a black bag in hand.

“I am.”

The mage opens the bag and Hadrian can’t help it, he leans forward to catch a glimpse of vials and odd instruments before they bring out a silver dagger and a metal glass, snapping the bag shut.

“The silver is a requirement,” the mage rambles on, “but we’ve moved beyond the goblets traditionally used. Now-” they turn to look at father, face turning serious, “you will have to use this knife to bleed yourself. Once enough blood has been collected, we can begin.”

They watch as the blood drips down and down, Hadrian reaching out to clutch at papa’s hand as both watch his father bleed.

“That’s enough,” the mage says, and he steps forward, carefully still as they begin the next step.

Slowly the mage dips their fingers in the blood, carefully bringing their hand to Hadrian’s neck and beginning to trace when he doesn’t move away. Soon runes line his arms and his neck, his face and even the silver scar covering half his face.

Heartbeat hammering, blood rushing in his ears, he focuses on staying perfectly still, perfectly silent, so caught up that he doesn’t catch the incantation used.

But he does feel the pain-feels the burning that lances through his scar, that leaves his body shuddering, that tears a muffled scream from his mouth as he falls to the floor.

“Hadrian? Hadrian!” A voice finally penetrates the fog, Hadrian blinking his eyes open, and he looks up to see father and papa kneeling in front of him.

Reaching out without thinking, he climbs into papa’s arms, buries his head in his neck and heaves, taking in deep gulps of air.

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” father says again and again, hand a reassuring presence on his neck. “You’re with us, you’re  _safe_.”

Finally his breath evens out, finally he doesn’t feel like he’s about to break apart, and Hadrian slowly breathes in and out before leaning back to look at them.

“Oh,” father mutters, sounding shaken and so, so pleased.

“You look like me,” father says, hand reaching out to catch a tangle of curls, and papa nods when he looks to him, something soft in his eyes.

“No more green,” papa adds, reaching out to trace along his eyes, and Hadrian smiles.

“That’s alright. I’ve always liked brown better.”


End file.
